


chum, and throw me overboard

by palinodes



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Disabled Character, Detachment from trauma, Kidnapping, M/M, Medicine, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mind Manipulation, Not Beta Read, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:06:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palinodes/pseuds/palinodes
Summary: Alex is gone for four days before he is rescued.By the time he has had some real time alone to process, i.e. the approximate thirty minutes in the bathroom that he was granted, Alex has landed on his feelings on the matter. On being saved from sure death, on being the rescued part of a rescue mission. He is overcome with earned, rational annoyance.
Relationships: Maria DeLuca & Michael Guerin, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 39
Kudos: 170





	chum, and throw me overboard

**Author's Note:**

> as always, if you notice something that should be tagged and is not, holler at me.

Alex has sympathy for them, his captors. He doesn’t have to condone their actions to understand their desperation. They are desperate, that much has been made clear. He has only an opaque sense of what they are truly after, but they clearly aren’t snatching people up for the fun of it. 

He wonders idly if the bootmaker he and Maria visited is connected to them somehow. He was off-putting, certainly. Set every alarm off in Alex’s head and hitch up every red flag, but there is no way to be certain, yet. Everyone he has seen since he was grabbed at Sander's has had their face obscured by a mask or a hood. Usually both. 

He is certain, though, that he is in a basement of some sort. It must be an industrial building, at most fifty miles outside of Roswell. 

It isn’t what Mimi had described, but maybe they changed their tactics. The whole place smells like piss, mold, and asphalt. It is a large room, wherever he is. There is a staircase about three yards from where Alex is tied to a chair in the center. There is only one door and a grate along the left side that they let him piss into twice a day. 

They haven’t been treating him in a ghastly matter. Nor have they been kind. 

He doesn’t particularly like having to do his business in front of someone. He doesn’t like being struck or force fed. But, they aren’t blaring death metal all hours of the day. They aren’t feeding him bug infested meat, or severing anything from his body. 

Alex counts that as big ole’ win. 

This didn’t go according to plan for him, using himself as bait for these people. They bit hard, but he hadn’t anticipated how thorough they’d be. His hope is that if they have him now, he can drag this out as long as possible until he dies. Buy the others time. To either hightail it out of town or come up with a strategy to protect themselves. 

Alex had counted four different hooded figures since they removed his blindfold. If they came down in pairs, they frequently moved in sync with each other. For a group so in step with one another, so organized, their dressings are sloppy. Not tailored, not entirely uniform. Alex reckons he is the first one they have hidden their faces from. 

Perhaps because he knows one of them. One of his brothers, maybe. Or the bootmaker himself. Or Barry, the man who dry cleans his uniforms. Maybe a fellow library patron he and Michael met in passing once. 

Or Forrest, even. Alex couldn’t rule that out. 

Three of them had an average male build. One was a bit smaller, a slight little spit of a thing. Maybe female, maybe not. They rotate shifts. One of them tries on different voices from time to time. Alex thinks it more to entertain himself, and maybe even Alex, than it is to actually disguise his voice. 

Alex has been holding his breath because these people hadn’t been so bad. He was waiting for the real monster to show its face. He had hoped it would come soon, before all this mess. Mess is what his uncle would have called it. A messy operation begets the state of the snake. Uncle Redd never really did make much sense. Too many hits to the head. 

This mess takes the form of Isobel, Kyle, and Michael. The three had come down that singular staircase with street clothes on and relaxed shoulders. 

Alex feels himself fall back into his seat upon seeing the trio. He can’t believe this. 

The entire group seems to be paying Alex no mind. Maybe, just maybe, they aren't here for him.

A pair of his captors followed closely behind them. Kyle is pulling something out of his knapsack. Both Isobel and Michael have their heads down. Michael rocks on his heels, while Isobel is still with her arms folded behind her back. Michael’s face is a beet red, the vein in his temple bulges. 

Kyle gives over an external that Alex recognizes as his own, his telltale filing schema adorns the side. EEG-47-Alpha_007. He strains against his binds, they bite into his wrists. Rubbing at the already raw skin and causing microscopic tears. He is shaking his head as violently as he can. So vehemently that his eyes nearly rattle in his skull. He moans and shakes his head again. The movement is rapid, unpleasant, blood vessel bursting. Sweat drips into his eyes. He lets out a shout of “hey” and “no, no” but they are muffled and rendered nearly pitiful against the tape across his mouth. His throat is clicking from days of disuse. He heaves twice from dysregulated breathing before he takes a few deep inhales through his nose. 

He hears Kyle say that they will give over the center of the console when they get Alex loose. The hooded man bows his head. 

“No, no. No, no, no,” he repeats slowly, mournfully to no one but himself. The tape pulls with the movement of his mouth uselessly. He closes his eyes and sways side to side. Like a child, see no. 

When he opens his eyes, he is met with Isobel’s amber ones. He lingers on her familiar beauty mark. It has always suited her. Her mouth has fallen open. She lets out short, little breaths. He murmurs behind the tape again, gasping and pleading with her. He would let her into his mind now, he tries to communicate with his eyes. Anything she wanted or needed to change course now, she could have. She could take it all. Scoop it out and present it to Michael on a dirty napkin as long as it ensured they left. 

Isobel is logical and prudent when it comes to safety. She will understand. 

She just shakes her head.

Alex resigned and silent by the time Isobel rips the duct tape from his mouth in one harsh pull. She uses her sleeves to rub away the residue on his cheeks with indelicate touch. The cotton and recycled polyester feel nice against his skin. She uses her other sleeve to sop up the sweat on his brow and the drool on his chin. She leaves behind the spare frustrated tears that managed to eek out during his fit. 

She opens and closes her mouth for a spell before she licks at her bottom lip. The first sign of anxiety he had seen from her.

“He’s all in there. I’ve got Manes,” she shouts. 

Alex always thought it was such a shame that the bulk of children were doomed with their father’s name without a second thought. Alex pictured himself and how his mother’s name sounded. How his name and that legacy would mix in with all the others. What life would have been like if he hadn’t been branded. Names and their power were always fascinating. 

_I’m sorry, **Guerin**. _

_I’m in love with **Michael**. _

Isobel, Iz, Izzy, Evans-Bracken, Evans again, etc,. 

Being ten years old and the neighbors asking them “Trick or Treat?” Maria and Alex, in their matching robes, the former with her hair teased to the sky. Chanting “fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself” in response at every door.

How Mama becomes Mom for most children. How she had switched to Mother in his head so quickly. 

Had he told them about his mama? He couldn’t recall. These people, no. Maria or Liz, maybe. 

She left him and Flint outside a gas station after she had been out of sorts all day. 

The thing he remembers the most is the fullness of her face. 

He feels a smooth palm on his forearm, groping and grasping. He grunts to let Kyle know that he is okay when he cuts him free from the zip ties. 

Isobel rises to her full, imposing height. She goes to dig through the bag Kyle abandoned in the middle of the room. 

She hadn’t ask him any questions. 

Michael appears in her place in front of Alex soon after. His appearance sends a not entirely unpleasant jolt through Alex’s entire body, from the suddenly, brief weakness in his knees to the loud thumping of his heart. He tries to ask after him, but the words clog in his throat. 

Michael affixes Alex’s prosthetic in place, his back turned as Kyle exchanges over a third of his life’s work over. He wonders where they found the leg and lubricant spray. He supposes that the captors gave it to them. Maybe had the forethought to bring the ALPS. He hopes it wasn’t part of the trade. He wishes there wasn’t a trade at all. 

If he believed in God, he would make a deal to right all this. 

Isobel is back in his field of vision. She is massaging Michael’s shoulders as he works, roughly and expertly. She is here for Michael and that is a good thing. 

“You okay?” Michael breathes more than articulates. 

He manages a nod, then he completes a smile. Michael looks disturbed. 

It had been some time since Alex had been able to properly clean his teeth. 

“Alex, we need to go now. We have a short window,” Isobel explains. “Can you stand on your own?”

“Can you get them back?” he wonders aloud. That console tech is his life's work, his mother's work. Michael can't just leave it behind. Maybe, there is still time for him to change his mind. Alex hopes so. 

Michael’s voice filters over the sound of the industrial fan and into his ear. “We think they only have you right now. There is no one else. Come on, we gotta focus on you.”

“Guerin,” Kyle barks, making for the stairs. “He’s delirious. We can do this later.”

“I’m not delirious,” Alex tries to insist, but all that comes out is some slurring. He imagines the effects of his statement are lessened by when he tries to stand and falls back down onto the seat. 

Michael frowns and tells Alex that he and Isobel have to get him up. They have to get him up now, but as soon as he figures he can make a go of it on his own, they’ll let him.

“Michael, we don’t have the time.” Isobel swoops in behind him. She loops her arms under Alex’s armpits and hauls him to his feet. Michael steadies him and begins walking him towards the stairs. 

The handlers have placed their prizes in old looking chests. They stand near the bottom of the stairs. They are stock still and staring straight ahead. 

Michael stops in front of them. Seemingly waiting for further instructions or a catch. When he is met with only silence, he exhales powerfully through his nose. “You motherfuckers ever lay hand on me and mine again. I swear I’ll—”

“You’ll what? Drink them to death?” Isobel yells at the back of her brother’s head. “Move it, Michael. We have less than ten minutes.”

“And you’re not supposed to talk to them outside of the topic parameters, remember?” Kyle chastises, already taking the stairs two by two. 

“Like, I give a shit about their fuckin’ rules.”

“Yeah,” Kyle exclaims, a little breathy from the exertion. He stops near the top step and turns back to shout. “And your rebel _with_ a cause schtick has gotten where actually? It took us a day longer than it should have negotiate a meeting time, because _someone_ felt the need to have a pissing contest.” 

Isobel scoffs. Alex feels her touch on the small of his back pushing him up the never ending stairs. “You both did that and you need to just shut up and keep moving. We have a whole factory labyrinth to get through.” 

Alex is essentially getting up the steps on his own, at this point. Albeit, slowly. He is bracing himself with one arm against the wall. But, if Isobel is right and there is a time constraint, he should bite the bullet and let them keep helping him. 

Michael has started lifting him on to each step. When he drops him down, it jostles his leg and he tries his best to hide his winces. 

“I’m the one who found where to even talk to them in the first place, so.”

“I believe I said, shut the hell up, Michael.” 

He lets Michael half carry him outside of the nondescript building, his arm around his waist. Isobel gives them a signal to follow. Pointing left, right, straight, and then left again. It is not long before they reach an open door and then the sun is beaming down on them and the wind is kicking dusts in their faces. 

Alex wasn't even really sure when she got ahead of them. When did he lose track of her? He was so focused on getting Michael out and it seemed the only way Michael was moving towards the exit was if they all were. 

He is dead on his feet and was useless for the trip out. 

He has the grace of a rotten plank caught in a crosscurrent. His body is stiff and covered in dried sweat, blanketing him in an uncomfortable body-wrought dew. 

He wills himself to relax, but he just can’t manage it. 

His head is pounding. His leg hurts, the prosthetic shifting uncomfortably because of his slight weight loss. All this pales in comparison to the sorrow that rings deep in his gut for what he has cost them. For what their foolishness has cost Michael and them all. 

He hoped to have his ashes spread in spirit by a river somewhere far away.

He has a vague notion of Kyle checking him over before he tumbles towards the car and is pushed in. 

There are three cars out front. He recognizes the 2006 Hummer as its driver side door opens. 

Greg, clean and sunburned, takes a half-step towards him before Michael’s hand on his chest leaves Alex careening back against the seat. Jesse rolls down the passenger side window. He is stone-faced as Isobel tosses over a file to him. His father opens it, nods curtly before closing it and tucking it under his left arm. He looks right at Alex then. He wears an unreadable expression. Not neutral, but not cruel nor soft, either. 

Alex refuses to look away first. 

He hates the thrum of pride he has when Jesse breaks before him. 

Kyle climbs into the driver’s seat and punches the ignition. Michael and Isobel pile in on either side of Alex. 

A choice he finds baffling, but he keeps that to himself. 

The jeep that Alex imagines they borrowed from the salvage yard to make the trip through the sand has a rattling, mean-sounding engine. That should have been fixed before they left. It is a distinct sound and traceable. 

Kyle is riding the clutch and Alex jerks to the left along with the vehicle. He slams into Isobel’s hip. She is bent over the backseat, fetching something. 

The air is acrid with them all crammed in together. It smells of unwashed feet, gasoline, and dry heat. His body is still covered in a thick layer of grime and dried sweat. The isopropyl alcohol soaked gauze seeps into his left eye when Isobel settles back down and presses it harder into the gash on his forehead. It stings a little. 

Alex can make out the outline of Kyle's head. He watches as the doctor spins the wheel, making the Jeep lurch to the side and squeak. Alex jerks to the right this time. He has a hazy awareness of Michael at his back, rubbing his palms down his arms in an erratic but soothing pace. 

“Jenna? Sanders?” he asks no one in particular.

Kyle lets out a calm sounding sigh. He hits the steering wheel with his palms three times. “So good to hear your voice, buddy.”

Isobel wraps a musty smelly blanket around his shoulders. She always seemed to be more in control than the others. These days, at least. She explains that all signs point to Jenna being dead and that she is sorry about that. Michael adjusts the blanket underneath Alex’s chin and replasters himself to his back. 

“Yeah. I figured. And Sanders?” 

Michael tells him what’s what. Quickly whispering into the shell of his ear. So fast that every word seemed to bleed into the next. The old man was found walking along Route 285 about fifteen miles outside of town a few hours after Alex disappeared. That he is a little loopy, but fine. Michael has him someplace safe for now. 

That’s welcome news. For Sanders, at least. At least they hadn’t fucked that up. 

Alex reckons the enigmatic group can only handle at most two people at a time. 

He allows himself to sag back against Michael’s chest a little, out of relief and fatigue. 

He glances above to the sky, clear and cold. He thinks of how birds have hollow bones and the density of stars. How he misses the sea and the idea of a dad.

* * *

Rosa is waiting on the cabin’s front door, Buffy in her arms. Backlit by the living room light, she looks like a shadow. When Alex sidles out of the jeep, she does a small, twisty dance. Bending deep at the knees and shimming side to side. “Victory, yay!” she shouts as they climb all onto the porch. Alex takes Buffy from her arms without comment and heads inside. “Yay?”

“Yes, yay,” Kyle assures and kisses her forehead. He guides her inside along with Michael and Isobel. 

Alex spends a few minutes petting Buffy on the couch, watching as people pour into his home. He mumbles that he needs to bathe before he debriefs them, assures them that he has everything committed to memory. 

“Of course,” Kyle placates. “Take your time. You want anything to eat?”

Alex calls over his shoulder that he just wants some of his protein powder in water. He keeps it under the sink. Kyle grimaces, but turns to walk to the kitchen all the same. 

“Your chair is in there, and some of your other stuff. So—yeah,” Michael says. Alex turns his eyes on him, finally, for that. He hopes his facial expression is getting across how disappointed he is that someone went digging through his home and his things without asking. His glare must work, because Michael looks half-ashamed, half-annoyed. “It was me. That okay with you?”

“Suppose it has to be, huh?”

Alex shuts the bedroom door behind him and then the bathroom door. As he strips himself of his clothes and prosthetic, Buffy flops down beside the toilet and the sound of her snores follow soon after. 

He sits in his shower chair and scrubs himself hard with the generic 3 in 1 wash he keeps here. He slowly moves to perch on the lip of the tub and dry off. He brushes his teeth with the store brand paste. He slaps some water onto his face and shaves. 

This is good. Time to get back into the routine. 

By the time he has had some real time alone to process, i.e. the approximate thirty minutes in the bathroom that he was granted, he has landed on his feelings on the matter. On being saved from sure death, on being the rescued part of a rescue mission.

He is overcome with earned, rational annoyance. 

He puts on sweatpants and a long sleeved shirt that have been laid out next to some of his other things. He picks three long, straight black strands of hair off of the sleeve. He can’t help but smile at the old iPod and the nail polish next to them. 

He ties the needed knot in the loose leg pant. He should stretch, but he doesn’t have the energy and tells himself that the morning will do. He slips on his readers that Michael was thoughtful enough to bring along. He pulls out a notebook from the bedside table. 

He gets to writing: how many people he saw, how many times he was moved, what they asked (very little), what he answered (nothing). 

He can hear people still milling about in the living room, coming in and out of the cabin. 

What was this? Did they really think he would spill his guts at the first sign of trouble? Was he that pathetic to them that they just had to get him out as quickly and sloppily as possible? 

He gathered himself and opened the door. Buffy putters out ahead of him. Alex was just expecting Kyle and maybe Rosa, but he is met with a group. 

Max and Liz are in the cabin now. He didn’t even know they knew where his own house was, let alone Jim Valenti’s cabin outside town. 

Michael, who is still here surprisingly, practically trips over himself as he walks across the room. His jeans are slug dangerously low on his hips. His skin looks clean, but he has dirty under his nails and his shirt is partially undone. Michael reaches him before Alex move on his own. Michael ushers him to the couch while Kyle hands him a glass and a half a dozen pills. He throws the pills to the back of his throat and swallows them down along with the protein shake in three long pulls. 

Liz sits down on the sofa opposite him and asks if he wants anything else. 

What he wants? He wants everyone but Michael to leave. He wants them to watch Return of the King like they used to when they were teenagers. Then he wants Michael to fuck him to sleep half way through the movie like he did back then, too. He wants to get a solid four or five hours and wake up to an empty house so he can work out how to fix their colossal mistake. 

He says he wants some Diet Coke. 

A few moments later, Michael brings him a can and sits down next to him, uninvited, but not unwelcome. He nurses the soda for a spell. 

Everyone is quiet. 

Michael’s energy is nearly unreadable to him. 

He slips his right arm around Alex’s waist and twines their fingers together on his left. Michael then leans over and presses several gentle kisses to the circumference of the slight bruising on Alex’s cheek. When he pulled back after allowing it for a few seconds, Michael was smiling softly at him. Alex just pats at his face. 

Michael, who makes his skin itch and his stomach ache. Makes him want to exist and be complete. As complete as he could manage. Something he’d never felt before he met him. 

Max clears his throat from his place on the floor next to Isobel, asks if it is okay to talk about what happened during the four days Alex was in captivity. 

Four days. 

Alex ruminates about it for a moment. running his thumbs along the cool, now empty can. He puts the can down on the floor and takes a deep breath. Liz could usually be counted on for making level-headed choices. Max, too, when Liz isn’t involved. Isobel, certainly when her brothers weren’t on the line. Why had they done this? He doesn’t understand how the three of them could have allowed this to happen. 

“So, it was only four days? You gave them parts of the console and our records? Did you even negotiate? Way to give away our baseline exchange rate. They made out like bandits.”

When no one offers any further information, not even Liz, Alex tells them that they got lucky. That they got really lucky. 

Max tells him that it wasn’t luck, that in the end it was Maria, Isobel, and Michael. Together, through harnessing something called the collective consciousness, who were able to locate him. Something about cosmic strings and stones, that weren’t actual stones, but metaphorical stones. 

Alex has a vague memory of Isobel mind walking him. He thought he was dreaming or hallucinating then. Apparently, not. 

Michael’s grip tightens. His hand, the healed, linear direction of the bones, the strength in his hold, feels wrong. But it is still one of Alex’s favorite things. To hold Michael’s hand. 

Max and Michael are talking at the same time now. He is trying to concentrate on Max’s low timbre, the information about who knows what and who had to be subdued in the short time that Alex was gone. But, Michael’s mouth is pressed to his temple, the sound of his voice murmuring about Higgs theory and heat planes and how he and Maria could feel him. Max’s voice starts mixing unintelligibly with Michael’s in Alex’s ears. Michael’s tone has a manic edge to it. His possessive grip on Alex’s arm and hip do not ease nor increase as he whispers.

Alex is just confused and tries again to focus on Max’s voice. 

He asks why his father was involved at all. 

Max explains that his kidnappers had thrown his cell in a ditch, probably to throw them off for a few hours while Max traced it through the Sheriff’s Office. The deputy tosses it over, for what’s worth, waterlogged and with a shattered screen. 

“Sorry about that. Yeah, so, your brother actually contacted Michael first. He was looking for info on Flint. Uh, so, Greg pulled some favors and was able to cover for you at the base. We needed Jesse for the clearances. Jesse was willing to give us what he knew about this group—we think they may be an alien cult. Deep Sky. We're not sure yet. Your dad did it for essentially a promise to never prosecute. Michael was able to—the best way to put it is your vibrations? He had Mimi describe where she was, in great detail, and Michael could pick up that you were somewhere similar. He felt you, so strongly. Maria was able to sort of harness it. They—”

“Stop. Wait. Just stop. This isn’t helpful. You had a trail from Mimi and you followed it. We need to be rational. I don’t believe in souls or psychics or whatever this is.”

Michael’s grip loosen and then tighten again. 

“You’re lying.” 

Alex hates to admit it, but her voice startles him. Maria’s voice is a register lower than her typical lilt. He isn’t even quite sure when she got here. Had she been here the entire time? Just sandwiched in with Rosa on loveseat. He tries and succeeds in surreptitiously pulling his hand out of Michael’s. 

“ _Alex_ , you don’t have to—“ she closes her eyes, crosses her arms digging her nails into the skin of her forearms. “Why are you lying? This is… you… this is ridiculous, you guys, he needs to rest.” 

Michael huffs in agreement. His breath is cool against Alex’s still damp skin. 

Maria’s hair is curly, falling around her face. She looks so pretty. She always looks so pretty. Alex’s lips are gruesomely chapped and his hair is getting too long, starting to frizz at the ends a little. She is wearing a Michigan Med hoodie that he recognizes from the few times he had gone on runs with Kyle. That’s nice. That’s a nice thing. 

Yet, he still tries to shift minutely away from Michael. 

Maria’s eyes dart between the two of them. He hopes he didn’t upset her. He pushes Michael off of him again. He offers her a reassuring smile and asks her how Mimi had been doing. Her lips twitch. He ignores Michael’s arms snaking around his waist this time. 

He leans towards her. She leans forward, too, slowly and with a cautious edge. It hurts to think of Maria being frightened of him, but he can understand why. He clears his throat and smiles a little bigger this time. He places both his hands out towards her.

Where and how does one draw the line between careful and paranoid? Alex never quite knew. 

“Are you feeling okay?” he tries.

The lines of her body remain stiff until their palms touch. She holds onto his fingers tightly for a while. Her slim fingers are cold and sweaty against his dry, patchy skin. 

“I’m very worried.” She is speaking as if she has something stuck in her throat. He is about to ask Michael to fetch her a glass of water. “How are you? Really.” 

She won’t look at him. It cuts so deeply, so harshly to be unworthy of her now. What had he done? Had Michael told her about the time at the farm? He hoped he hadn’t, as they had promised one another to not say anything to anyone. He hadn’t betrayed her then. She had made it so clear that she and Michael were done for good. But, he’d lied about that once, too. 

She keeps her head bowed. She squeezes his hand three times in rapid succession, hard and consistent. 

When they were all kids, running around the playground or in each other’s backyards, he and Maria were always on the same team. It was an unspoken rule. Neither of them were particularly competitive children. They always had more fun planning out the most ridiculous route to victory as opposed to actually accomplishing it. Liz and Rosa were beasts, whether it was Spit or Capture the Flag. They would have your third grader head on a spike. It was a smart set up. The Ortechos always won and Alex and Maria always had more fun. 

Throughout their childhood, the pair of them had developed countless nicknames and signals and nonsense words to communicate their next moves.

Three squeezes had always meant “run and hide.” 

She takes hold of both of his hands and clamps down again. 

One, two, three. 

He squeezes back once and grins. “I’m fine. Really, I am.” She tries to smile back, but can’t seem to manage it. He pats the smooth skin of her boney wrist in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. “So, don’t worry. It’s okay. Everything will be alright. You and Mimi will be safe no matter what. I promise. I promise you that, okay?”

He looks around for people to affirm his promise. Liz nods. Rosa is kind of staring at them in an unnerving way. Max, Isobel, and Kyle are moving now, huddling by the kitchen. Isobel is shielding her mouth with one hand and frantically making unintelligible gestures with the other. Kyle is shaking his head and scowling. Max is starting to whisper something about rogues and a light. 

Maria yanks him by the elbows towards her chest. He shakes off his thoughts and focuses his attention back on her. Liz and Rosa both have an unnerving edge now. 

“Alex, sweetie, I think you’re having—” Her lips tremble as she smiles tightly. She swallows and then manages a more sincere smile. She runs an elegant finger along his love line. “I have a day off coming up in a few days. You’ll probably be at your house by then. I could bring Mama by and we could play Catan or something?” 

That would be good for her, to jog her memory a bit. 

He is about to remark as much, but Michael beats him to the punch: “Let’s play it by ear, yeah?” 

Maria half-sneers at him. Her nose is crinkled up, she is full of disdain and resentment. She is just simply _sneering_ at him. There is no other word for it. He has never seen her look at Michael that way before. 

She holds him in her sights, assessing him. She sneers again, wavering towards mocking. Her head and shoulders bob for a spell. A bereft, unspoken dismissal. When she turns her eyes back on Alex, they are soft again. 

“Alex, you give me a call in a couple of days and we’ll figure it out.”

He gets it. She has to coordinate and maybe Mimi won’t be feeling as lucid then.

“If _you_ feel up to it.”

He untangles himself from her and leans back against the couch. He is tired and doesn’t have the stamina to affect regulate as he should, but he is not some glass figurine. He says, “right” with a tone that he shouldn’t. 

Max and Isobel return to their seats. Kyle is in the kitchen, washing his face. They had a lot of questions prepared as follow-ups: Did they exhibit any powers? Did Alex think they were human? Did they examine him? Did they think Alex was an alien? What did they threaten? Did they mention any names that Alex didn’t recognize? How much did they know? Did they know about all three of them? Did they know about Noah? Did they mention Project Shepard? Did they know about him and Michael? How did they know? 

Liz is writing everything down. He tries to give his notebook to her, but she just looks at him oddly. She goes back to writing, grumbling about how they shouldn’t have waited to let him shower. How she wanted to scrape under his nails, but it is pointless now.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think of that, but I never touched them, so I don’t know what good it would have done.”

She pouts her red lips to blow her hair out of her eyes. “Well, thank God for that.”

He is hoping that they all just let that little fib go. There is little point in telling them now. He should have thought before he acted, he just felt so grimy and he needed a break. But, he knows that is no excuse. 

Michael is wearing that lovely, bewildered expression that he has. One of the thousands in the Rolodex of “Michael expressions” that Alex keeps hold of tightly in his mind. His clenching jaw when he climaxes, the way he licks at the corners of his mouth when he is itching for a fight, his raised, questioning eyebrows, his shunning eyes. 

“Hey,” Alex swallows, balls his hands into fists. He never quite mastered reassuring Michael without touch. “No harm, no foul right?”

Liz’s expression is frighteningly neutral when she raises her head from her work. She just looks at them, a hard look, before turning back towards the page she was on. She writes something slowly and underlines it a few times. Alex wants to ask what it was, but doesn’t. He can find out later, if it is need-to-know. 

Everyone looks fatigued, Michael especially. He looks like he hasn’t shaved in weeks. He smells nice, though. His eyes are bloodshot and wide.

He imagines that Michael needs a break, a little coffee and some food maybe. 

“It’s late,” Alex pronounces to the group, gesturing to the tired looking man to his right.

“It’s 8PM,” Max reasons, opening his laptop back up and settling back. 

Michael leans forward with his palms on his knees. He stands with a fluidity that Alex envies. “We can quiz him later, let the dude be. I’m serious, Max. Pack it in. Re-question him tomorrow.” 

Max and Liz huff, but do as they are told. It is extraordinary how quickly seven people can make a mess. Rosa has stuff spread everywhere that she is tossing into her backpack. She couldn’t have been here for more than a few hours. Liz has at least five different colored pens. Max has his hat, his computer, a tablet, a book, and even more. It takes at least ten minutes for everyone to gather their effects. Some of them even had food in the fridge. 

Maria is wearing a concerned expression as she slides her pink jacket on. Kyle is explaining that Michael is staying. Which is news to Alex.

“I don’t need—”

“Don’t,” Michael snaps from the kitchen. The first words he had uttered without a soft edge to Alex since they pulled him out of the basement. 

“I would prefer—”

“Well,” Michael slams the bin shut. “When we get everything back under control, we will take people’s preferences into account.” 

“Down, boy,” Isobel teases, fetching her shoes from under the coffee table. 

Alex relents, all the fight is quickly leaving his body. His temples still throbbed, but not as badly as a few hours ago. The ache had settled all throughout his body, determining what twinged the worst was hard to nail down. 

Maria asks if he wants her to stay with him, instead. He is about to tell her that it is fine, that she needs to get back to the bar and her mother. 

“I want to be the one here with him.” 

“Wow,” she growls. She shoves her jacket on the rest of the way, shaking her head and grimacing. She clenches her fists and raises them over her head in mock worship. “He has Risen. The great, tough Michael Guerin has figured out what he wants. And with such great timing, ‘cause he’s not vulnerable at all, right now.” She points to Alex and then turns to the rest of the group. Her voice is full of mocking spite. “But, the old road dog has once again mandated his territory, everyone. He is gearing up to lift his leg and piss. So, update your blogs.”

Maria had been understandably angry and standoff-ish once she became in the know. Then she and Michael, weirdly, awfully, tried again. Alex even encouraged it, in what Kyle called a “spectacular display of self-destruction.” It crashed and burned pretty hard almost as soon as it began, but they had always been kind to each other. 

This was new. Alex didn’t like it one bit. 

Maybe Michael tried to get off with her while he was gone. Alex wouldn’t be surprised and couldn’t be upset about it. He couldn’t and wouldn’t. He doesn’t own people. If Maria is striking out now because of unearned guilt, that is unnecessary. “Guys—”

“You’re pissed at me.” Michael’s brow is creased and his mouth is a tight line. He puts his hands on his hips and nods dramatically. “Message received. But, this is not about me and Alex. Do not do that. Don’t talk about something you know nothing about.”

“And who’s fault is that?”

Michael laughs a little at that. “I don’t know what weird soap opera you all watched in middle school that makes you believe you are entitled to knowing what—”

“What I know, Guerin, is you basically hustled my mother. Had Isobel dig around in her head and you pulled them both into this mess without—” 

“I was careful. I would never hurt Mimi.” Isobel is cross-legged on the floor, stretching her hamstrings. 

Maria whips towards her. “I know that, Isobel. This isn’t about you. I know how he can get.”

“Thanks for that,” Michael snorts. “I would never hurt her. You know that, too. I didn’t hurt her. It had to be done. Max and I were coming up with nothing but dead-ends. Isobel’s mindwalk on him didn’t work. I couldn’t come up with another solution. Your mother had been in contact with these people. It was a Hail Mary and it worked. Aren’t you glad that it worked?”

Michael isn’t raising his voice. He hasn’t moved from his spot in the kitchen doorway since Maria started. But, Maria progressively gets closer to screaming and is almost prowling towards him. “Of course I am. Don’t insult me. I may not be his cosmos-derived soulmate or whatever, but I have loved that man for longer than you. I would have done anything to help. The act of what did with Mom, asking her questions? There's nothing wrong with that in vacuum. But, you didn’t ask me, you just took, Guerin!”

Buffy had come out lumbering from her hiding place when she heard someone moving about in the kitchen. She is growling at Maria from her spot at Michael’s feet. Alex reaches for his crutch, making a move to stand, but Kyle gently pushes him back down. “You just gotta let her do this.” 

Michael apologizes again. But he doesn’t look very sorry. He glances at Max or Isobel for backup, but they are huddled in a group on the floor. Isobel is adamantly pointing at something written in Liz’s notebook, while Liz’s mouth twists in annoyance and disbelief. Max shrugs and points at the pair of them. As if, saying to Michael, you are on your own. 

Maria just shakes her head. She calms down, almost deflates. Her body went nearly limp. “I know you were scared. I don’t think you’ve ever been that scared in your life. I know you were so terrified of what could have been happening to him that you could barely move. I know that you love him, that he’s your person. And I know if you were thinking properly you wouldn’t have done that.” She touches her bare neck and looks a little lost. “But, you did. You did wrong by me and it didn’t have to be that way.” 

“DeLuca, I—”

“Basta,” Rosa shouts, who a moment ago was splayed out next to Liz on the couch. She is, now, inexplicably, next to Maria, rubbing her back. Kyle is there, too. “Basta!”

“What are you two talking about?” Alex’s hands are shaking. He is shaking a little all over, really. Why is he shaking and when did that start? “Michael wouldn’t—Is Mimi—”

“Mom’s fine. And so are you. Physically. And that’s all I give a shit about right now.”

“Excuse me?” Rosa quips. 

Maria suppresses a laugh, dropping her back back onto Rosa’s shoulder. “You go without saying.” 

Maria sighs and asks again if she wants her to stay instead. He answers too quickly. He can tell. She is looking at him with a sad expression when she leaves, arm-in-arm with Rosa. He must have hurt her feelings. He’ll text an apology tomorrow morning. He hopes he can fix it. 

He knows his missteps linger on the tongue and the mind forever for some. 

All the women managed to walk out without touching him. Save for, and as if Alex needed even more surprises today, Isobel. Isobel, who had been silent for nearly the whole evening, squats in front of him, her head tilted, her eyes a little cold. “You tell them anything we should know about?”

He takes a moment to soak in her clean, make-up free face. He doesn’t think he has ever seen her bare-faced before now. She looks nice with her hair pulled back tight, loose track suit on. She is giving off no smell, unlike her brothers. One always smelled good and distinct, a mix of musky earth and guaiac wood. While the other was the same but always had an edge of pepper to him and was too pungent for Alex. 

Isobel is wearing Dior tennis shoes. 

Flint shot that FBI agent a week ago, the one who came into town looking for Max. She looked like she had soft skin. Like she liked watching Real Housewives and tennis. 

The members who took him seemed to be convinced that Alex knew her, but he didn’t. A blessing and a pity all at once. 

He mirrors Isobel’s movement, cocking the opposite eyebrow and tilting his head to the right. “Who the **fuck** do you think you’re talking to?”

Michael is quiet, sitting on the small counter, picking at his nails. He jumps down and fiddles with the sink, cleaning and refilling Buffy’s water dish.

He’ll have to tell them, when the time comes that they wanted Isobel. It’s why he wanted them to stay away. He had managed to gather that interest in Max had waned as Isobel’s powers grew. They asked him a lot about Isobel. The way they spoke of her: most powerful, queenspiece, and the like. 

She smirks, pleased and smug. Her eyes glisten a little as she plants a light kiss between his eyebrows. “Glad to have you back, punk.”

Alex wishes he could say he was glad to be back. 

Michael saunters over. The cushions next to Alex dip to accommodate Michael’s weight. The man presses a kiss to Alex’s cheekbone, his beard pleasantly rough against Alex’s own skin. 

“Sorry I freaked you out so much.”

Michael frowns and jerks his head towards the front door where Kyle is lingering. Max expectantly holds the door open for him. Kyle stops short, his coat half-on. He turns around and back to the door and back again for the umpteenth time. 

“Remember, Guerin, any sign. Shortness of breath, new bruising, confusion—”

Michael nods and gestures for the doctor to be quiet. He ticks off the last of the list on his tantalizingly long, thick fingers: “Also any combination of basic stroke symptoms. Or vomiting, stiff neck, chest pain. I got it, doc. No one knows when Alex is faking good health better than me.”

Max still has a broody look to him. Not that it is a new mode for the cop. 

Michael is cupping his face now. It feels so good: the brush of callused thumbs along his cheekbones, traveling down to his clavicle. Michael is looking right at him now, trying to catch his eyes, but Alex can't manage it. It feels so good and he doesn't want it to stop, but it has to. If he looks at Michael, he is done for. Always has been. _Touch me, touch me. Never stop touching me, you're so lovely. You're so good,_ he wants to whisper or scream from the rooftop, whichever Michael prefers. He closes his eyes and ducks down to press a kiss to the tips of the fingers tracing over his skin. Michael lets out a relieved sigh. Alex clucks his tongue in apology. He could never apologize enough for being such a disappointment. Needs must, and all that. 

“Actually,” Alex says, removing Michael’s hands from his shoulders and placing them back on his own lap. Michael balks when he pushes his hands down again and turns to his brother. “Can I talk to you two for a minute?”

Kyle looks at Max as if he is not clear as to why he needs to stay, but then smiles anyway. 

“Yes, of course,” Kyle responds as Max whispers to himself, “Thank God.” 

Max hollers out the door. “We’ll be out in a minute. They need help with something.”

“Everything okay?” Alex hears Maria call. 

“Yeah, it’s fine. Just give us five minutes.” 

Max sits back down on the couch catty corner to Alex. Michael gets up and heads into the bedroom, makes some noise about unpacking. But, everyone knows this privacy is feigned and calculated. Kyle takes his spot, checking Alex's pulse and tsking. 

Alex places his palms on his thighs, spread his fingers out in front of himself. He asks the two of them what they reckon their combined IQ is? He is met with blank faces. 

“Neither of you are slouches. And Michael was tested around 205 at age 11. That’s an estimate because they couldn’t chart his math score. Liz holds her own against him. How is it that between the four of you, you couldn’t work out that a rescue mission for me maybe wasn’t the brightest idea?” 

He goes on to tell them because Liz was rational and that he had a feeling Liz made her thoughts on the situation clear. Neither Kyle nor Max can seem to look at him. “That’s what I thought. Why didn’t you listen to her?” 

“Maria—”

“And I are last in the hierarchy, so don’t for a second try to convince me that you, Max Evans, would let your ego lapse for long enough that you would allow Maria DeLuca to call a shot. Don’t play this game with me.” 

Maria was just as smart as they were, in her own ways. Just as effective and important. She had become very adept at research and invaluable in that area over a short period of time. It was their fault for not seeing that, not Maria or Alex. 

But, now wasn’t the time for that fight. 

“I have set you all up pretty well and I am military. Ergo, I am not a valuable asset when danger directly solely towards me is involved. Too many lines could be traced back to you. You have to trust me that I would just—do what needs to be done.”

Kyle recoils from him. “I will not—I’m not gonna—I’m not going to apologize for saving you. I will not say I’m sorry that you’re alive. ”

“Well, I certainly hope you aren’t waiting on a thank you because that dog just won’t hunt.”

Max and Kyle jolt when Michael slams what sounds like a book down and Buffy barks. 

Alex sighs, focuses back on Kyle. “I know that I am your friend and that you love me.”

“I do!” Kyle has a desperate tinge to his voice. “Please, just let me check your ribs.”

“When things like happen, you have to steel yourself and—“

“And let you die,” Michael shouts from the bedroom. “Got it, private.” 

“Yes. You should have," he yells back. "You should have left me there to die. The door frame is shaking. Take a walk, Guerin.” 

Michael just grunts, steps into the room with the dog, and trudges out the front door.

Alex runs his thumb along his index finger. His newly clean skin feels tight and dry. His scalp itches. He waits for the door to close before he turns back to them. “Kyle, you have to walk yourself through the logic. If they get you, they get Liz, your mom, or Rosa. And as my Uncle Dave used to say: that is ballgame, boy. If they get me, they just get me. They got nothing else to bet with, right? We have no fat left on the bone. No wiggle room. There is no trade deal for me where the loss in assets would be worth it." 

Max looks blank. Kyle just looks constipated. Alex huffs and explains _again_ that the line ends with him. That his value becomes zilch once he is in custody. The pros do not outweigh the cons. He repeats himself, slower and with smaller words. 

When Max asks about Maria, Kyle reels back as if preparing for a hit, scowling and red-faced. Max asks again, but he had pulled Alex out of himself so much. He hadn’t had enough time to come up with an answer that he believed Max would find to be sufficient. 

Alex imagines he looks like a gaping fish. Kyle is up and pacing now. 

“That’s not—We all love—“ Alex takes a deep breath. Gets the image of her in his position out of his head. Are they playing stupid? It wasn’t so much that he suffered inordinately. He hadn’t. He had been uncomfortable, sure. But, the implications of taking a woman as opposed to a man are completely different. The threat has a different tinge. He exhales through his mouth and tells Max what he must need to hear: “People would notice if Maria was gone. In town, people would ask questions.” 

Max nods slowly. His expression is more calculated than pensive. Alex will take what he can get. 

“You were supposed to leave me there. That was the logical course of action. But, you acted on presumed obligation and now you are in an even bigger mess.”

“Presumed obligation, that’s what you think this was?” Max asks.

“For you? Certainly. It’s not meant to be taken as a commentary on your character.”

Kyle huffs at that. “So, lemme—lemme get this straight. Anyone else in peril, we gotta save them, but you? We’re just supposed to let it go.”

He waits until Kyle is actually looking at him to answer. “Yes.”

Michael enters the living room from the front door, Buffy trails behind with her tongue hanging out. He quickly runs his hands under the faucet and is still wiping them dry on his pants as he approaches them.

“Well, fuck that,” Kyle snarks. “This is—this is some bullshit. Some real bullshit, man. I don’t have to listen to this. This is sick.” 

“You should respect my wishes the same as anyone else.” 

Kyle gets up and makes for the front door. He wrenches it open and makes it one foot out the door before he turns back and slams the door closed. “Why are you in such a rush to die, huh? Why?”

“I’m not in a rush to die, but—”

“You’d die for all of us. Even this asshole here?” he demands, gesturing to Max. “You’d die for some fucking—fucking wild deer—”

“ _Wild deer_?”

“So, you make the big hero sacrifice, because you’re not worth shit. Right? Where does that leave me? Or Maria? Where does that leave Michael, Alex?”

“I’m not saying it wouldn’t be difficult for a bit. But, they would get through it. You would get through it just fine. You wouldn't if it were your mother or Liz or—” 

Kyle tells him to just stop, so he does. His friend is still shaking his head when he leaves. 

Max stands and stops in front of him. He spares a glance Michael's way before he murmurs in Alex's ear, “I heard you. You’re right. I hope we don’t end up in this situation again, but you are right.” 

Michael tells Max to get the fuck out. 

Once they were out of sight, Alex sat back into the couch. He takes off his reading glasses and uses the hem of his shirt to clean them. He places them on the seat and looks at Michael, who has sat on the floor at his feet. 

“I don’t like what you did with Mimi. I do not like that shit, Michael.” 

Michael touches Alex’s right knee with his left hand. He is about as subtle as a brick to the face, sometimes. He hates how a brush of Michael’s fingers still makes his cheeks go aflame. 

“I don’t like it.”

“I don’t either. I ain’t proud of it.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

“I don’t regret it, but I’m not proud of it. I’m not. Look, I didn't do anything fucked up. I didn't take anything not offered. Maria is mad because I didn't ask her before I did it. And I get it. That was fucked of me. I never put that woman in danger and I never made her feel unsafe. We just asked questions.”

“Okay.”

“Alright.”

“So, ‘the baseline exchange rate,’ Alex?” 

“I know you’re upset and normally, I would let you do your thing, but I’m just kinda worn down. Can we do the thing tomorrow?”

“Wha?”

“You love me, you’re in love with me. But, you don’t like me. You can only remember the bad things, which isn’t either of our faults. You don’t blame me, but I’m still a Manes. I’m not a happy person. I'm too trusting. I'm stupid. We’re bad for each other. Etc, etc, etc,.”

Michael looks to the ceiling. He closes his eyes and his mouth goes all lax and lush. It looks like he is praying to heavens for patience. Alex can make out every thick, haunting hair that adorns his neck, his jaw, his clavicle. 

“So, that’s what you think I think of you? That’s how you think I see us?”

Alex doesn’t offer much of an answer, because of course it is. How else could Alex interpret it? 

He rubs at his own chest for a moment, trying to loosen the tightness there. _“My heart hurts when I move,”_ he confessed one night to his mother. She tutted, tucking him in tighter. She said it wasn’t his heart, that it was his mind. She encouraged him to picture something nice. 

_“No. No, Mama, really, my heart hurts when I move. It hurts so bad,”_ he pleaded. 

He tried to force her to feel it. He shoved her fingers under the neatly tucked blanket and over where his teacher said the heart was. Where his pain was. She patted his chest a touch too hard. She told him that she was sorry, but that there was nothing to be done for that. That sometimes the body misfires. That it would pass in time. 

He fell slowly into sleep, fitful and hot, that night. He had been so afraid that there was a fire inside his body that he never knew about it and it would scorch his heart. That no one ever told him about. Did everyone have fire in them? And what did they do when the fire got out of control? Would the fire come out of him and burn down the house? Was that how fires started? Did only he and Mama have fire in their chest? What did that mean? 

The discomfort did pass for awhile. He thought then about how he had been right all along, how Mama really was magic. But, then he had show-and-tell in class and the hurt came back. 

But, Alex didn’t bring it up again until she was long gone. 

He did ask Flint about the fire in their bodies, though. He just looked at him as if Alex had said something weird. Alex didn’t want to be weird, so he let it go. A few years later he would hear his father and Jim talking about a gun misfiring. Then he would understand. He would smile to himself about the foolishness of kindergartners and language. 

He did miss the idea of the bodily fire, though. It wasn’t until he was seventeen and hesitantly pressed his palms to Michael Guerin’s chest that he would wonder again about a body encasing secret flames. But, Michael’s body could never misfire. His body and mind were firefight incarnate, with all that morbid beauty and destruction that such an event provides. When he was under or with or near and beside Michael, he got to imagine the fire again. That maybe there was something really special about him, the youngest Manes boy from Roswell. He gets that gift again. If only for a few moments. 

When he was fourteen, his father took him to the doctor for an assessment. Alex mentioned the stiffness and chest pain that had plagued him since he was five to the nurse. His father told him that it wouldn’t get him out of training. Alex said he understood. He wasn’t trying to get out of it. He just thought he should mention it in case his heart sounded funny. 

He also suffered from what Greg called “The Great Manes Gut Aches” then, too. But, he didn’t mention those. 

About thirty minutes later, his family doctor, who had gone grey by thirty, stalked into the exam room. He poked Alex hard just above his left pec, square on his sternum, and just above his right collarbone. Alex gasped in pain and surprise. Dr. Mann told him he was having muscle spasms and to try and just relax. He also prescribed him muscle relaxers. His father only let him use them once. Alex got so high that evening that he ate four avocado rolls in one sitting and braided Rosa’s hair. 

Michael heaves himself off of the floor. He groans and he settles down next to Alex. He must notice Alex rubbing at his sternum. He questions, startled, but trying hard to sound even, if that is a new pain. 

Alex is honest and says it isn’t. 

Michael asks if he remembers their talk in the Airstream the night before Max died. Alex nods and closes his eyes. The memory of the calculated vulnerability makes him feel ashamed. He begins to reformat the conversation in his head. Maybe if he had stepped closer a moment sooner, or not at all. Maybe if he would have used contractions, or the words “upper hand” instead of “won.” It is a fruitless exercise, but he can’t help but indulge it sometimes. 

“I’ve been, uh, talkin’ with Iz a lot. Have been for a while now and she thinks that you were trying to show me that even though my mom was gone, that I still had someone who loved me. That I wasn’t all alone.”

He hadn’t known that Michael understood his intent. He had seemed so repulsed by him after the funeral, that he thought it was best to leave it all alone. They still saw one another, of course. A couple of a near high-adrenaline fucks in his truck or the bunker over the past few months. One actual one, it was an abandoned barn closer to the Long Farm. Dry hay can and will slice up your back like a bitch, he learned. 

Michael is stammering when he listens back in. He was probably waiting for Alex to say something. He was trying but couldn't force any word out. 

Michael, now, was stumbling, but still sounded confident: “I know—I know that I am good at sayin’ it and I suck at showin’ it most times. But, I do—I do love you. Not just in a soulmate way. Which, I know you know we are. We can’t have what we have and you not believe that. But, not in a way that makes me feel like I have no choice. I’m in love with you and I don’t feel shame about it. And when I did—and I did—it wasn’t about you. And I know that seems contradictory to say, but you have to understand—loving you and being loved by you is the greatest thrill of my life. It is the best thing in my life. The purest thing.”

It’s funny. Alex once said the same thing. Less poetically, of course. But, the intent he believes is the same. _I’d stay in Roswell forever, as long as he kept kissing me._

“Think of what my father could have done to you.”

“Worth the risk.”

“Why?”

“I dunno, yah just are.” Michael smiled nastily then and tells Alex that he reckons he gets it. That Alex gets to take risks for people he loves, but if the people who love Alex try to do the same it was wrong. “You would be okay with me doing what you did? You used yourself as bait without even talking to us.” 

“Do you think I didn’t consider every angle?”

“I think—I think that when it comes yourself you can be very rash, at times. I think you _are_ in a rush to die. That hurts so fuckin’ bad, Alex. It hurts me so _bad_.” 

Alex’s cups Michael’s trembling jaw. The small whine that escapes Alex’s lips is horrifyingly embarrassing. 

It almost makes him believe in the great lie, the tale of original sin. Michael’s wrath could be so palpable and omnipresent. Alex understands. He used to keep himself angry, a constant thrum. There was a time when he thought that Michael could never be in the picture. He couldn’t risk being another Manes in his way, as he said. Michael makes him feel vulnerable, like he could be safe. He is his flayed nerve, his exposed flank. 

Michael turns his face is Alex’s hands, kisses at his palm before asking, “Was it easier for you to give up ‘cause you don’t want me anymore? Or because you do?” 

Alex wants all these things so badly that it tears him apart in seven directions, because it’s not enough that he’s like this. A part of him wanted to stay like this, holding onto that anger and that pain and that fatigue, because he deserves it. He deserves it and he doesn’t know how to live any other way. He doesn’t know how to live without his family’s approval. 

“It wasn’t that,” Alex whispers. “I just accepted it. I accepted it and I was relieved.” 

And now he is here again and he doesn’t know what to do. 

“Well, I don’t accept that.”

“Okay. They will come for someone else. We need to prepare for that. They mentioned the dirty bomb.”

“I left them a little gift.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm makin' some bold moves these days, darlin’.” Michael waggles his fingers. “Iz and I have been testing it out. Wanna see?”

Alex nods. 

Alex thought he was going to access some memories, like Isobel could. Or juggle Buffy’s cans of dog food. Instead, Michael slides his hand under Alex’s shirt. Michael’s palm against his belly is warm and then it starts to glow a little. He is bombarded with the most beautiful, complex mindscape. It’s Michael’s and it is intrinsic and never ending. It is a chaotic burst of sound and color, but fascinating. And then Alex is there. Alex is everywhere. Michael is half-way through feeding his most precious memories, the bulk of which, Alex is the star into his head when their connection is severed without warning. 

Michael is sprawled out on the floor, cradling his chin to his chest. Alex’s arms are out. As if he pushed him away. Alex had done this, caused the sprawl of Michael's magnificent limbs against the wood floor, but he isn't quite sure when or how. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t know that would happen. I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s okay. I ain’t hurt. I just wanted to show you.”

“You love me. But, you don’t like me, Michael. I know that and there is no need to torture yourself. Or me.” 

Alex can understand why Michael doesn't get it. How much it hurts to know that Michael loves him so wholly and yet feels so sickened by him. This pink cloud of trauma would wear off within weeks and then where would Alex be? Stuck with the memories of Michael kissing his forehead as he slept. Stuck with the knowledge that Michael could feel so soft for him one moment and so abhorrent the next. 

Alex has done many horrible deeds, but he will never be quite sure what he has done to deserve that. 

Michael gives him a bewildered expression that quickly morphs to a determined one. “That’s what you got from that? I didn’t mean to show you all that, but I’m glad I did. I’m glad I did ‘cause I fuckin’ like yah. I think you’re real swell and I kinda want you to go to therapy.” 

Alex actually laughs at that. 

Michael just keeps on talking. “They don’t know about it. The others. The work with Maria and Mimi. Alex, it opened my eyes. Our eyes. Me and Iz. We’ve been fighting with both arms tied behind our backs for our whole lives. Between them and what you found and my mother—either we’ll figure it out before they come for me or I’ll eat the monster alive from the inside out.” 

“Come for _you_?” 

Michael speaks then of the Golden Legend. How Saint Margaret of Antioch survived her first martyrdom phase. She was to be eaten alive by Satan in the form of a dragon but her cross pendant irritated the dragon’s guts and the beast burst open, with an unharmed Margaret popping out of it. 

“They could be your people. We don’t know who they are yet.”

“My people—the people I trust were all just in this room. No one else for now.” 

He is speaking so rashly. It reminds Alex of the night Michael had drained his powers in a foolish attempt to bring Max back by sheer force of will. No one wanted to see him do that again. 

They are going to come for Michael and he left them a clue as to how best to do it. Alex lasts a good half-beat before he is crying in a way he imagines a three year old would when he scrapes his knee. Just openly weeping, not bothering to hide his face or quell the noises. He just curls in on himself and cries. 

Michael pries his fists from his face. He tilts Alex's face up towards his. Alex feels a heat course through him. Michael is beaming softly as he wipes away the fat tears finding purchase before slipping down Alex’s cheek. “There’s my boy. There you are. No more hiding. Not when it is just us.” 

“I’m very tired.”

“That’s fine. That’s fine, love. You can rest for a good while now. Alex, Alex. I am awake.” 

They talk for another hour about their options. Alex promises to call the VA in the morning and figure out his mental health benefits. He says Michael needs help, too. He refuses to go to bed until Michael agrees. It doesn’t take long for Michael to swear he’ll consider anger management or AA for now and go from there. He promises he will make it up to Maria. 

Relieved, Alex practically crawls to the bedroom.

He leaves the bedroom door wide open. 

As he sits in bed, tension gnaws at the inside of his belly. The anxious wolf’s claws ripping at his insides. He feels as though his brain will rave but not dream. 

Michael comes in about an hour later. He strips off his clothes as Alex lays back against the pillows. He covers Alex’s body with his own. Resting his head on his shoulder. Alex runs his hands through Michael’s hair and down his bare back. He is crooning against his sternum, reveling as if the most precious, soothing sound is Alex’s heartbeat against his ear. 

He presses his hand against where Alex had felt uncomfortable earlier. Again not asking permission. Alex allows it, though. He supposes that is permission enough. 

No flashes, no dizziness, no cacophony. It is such a clean, serene feeling that washes over him. Alex is warm all over. He feels cocooned in it. 

“That’s what I meant to do the first time, but I fucked it up. I’m new at this shit. But that’s me and you in here, baby, you see?” 

Alex whispers that he has never loved anything so completely and utterly. How he always has. He wants to lash out at the world for the years they wasted. But, it hardly matters now. 

Alex smiles into the crown of Michael’s head as the man yawns so hard Alex hears his jaw crack. 

He can’t let Michael risk himself. They will never be at anyone’s mercy ever again. 

But, maybe it is time trust.

Let the old power of Antar sort their monsters out. 

**Author's Note:**

> bruh. i wrote the bulk of this on muscle relaxers and with a fever, so. enjoy??? i haven't spoken to another human being in person in 29 days. 
> 
> tbh if when i come to, i am embarrassed i will orphan lmao. 
> 
> i tried to copy edit and tbh idk if i succeeded in the slightest. 
> 
> who is taking people in the town of roswell? this band of merry losers doesn't know quite yet, and alex's brain is all triggered, so the choice is yours. 
> 
> it is meant to be confusing because he is experiencing intermittent depersonalization. tbh same. “that’s my secret, cap. i’m always depersonalized up in here.” 
> 
> idk this mostly dialogue. who knows what tomorrow will bring. deletion? probably.


End file.
